


Summer Storms

by placidings



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, History of abuse, M/M, Pining, Relationship Study, and padre florentino is the Supportive Dad isagani never knew, but guess who lives, eh??? eh????, i stand by the belief that isagani loves the water in all forms, of some sort, pining!isagani but he doesnt know it yet, slight penilaez if u squint really hard, they were friends before they were lovers fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: The sky is divided into two, the dark battling the light. Two opposing sides in a conflict, a storm brewing. Isagani thinks it is fascinating yet bizarre to see the universe unable to make its mind up, as if it were human, as if it were like him.Isagani always loved the rain-now, he loves it for an entirely different reason.





	1. una: a m b o n

**Author's Note:**

> this was beta-read by the ever-so-lovely [ang-gray-smol](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol)!! i will forever be thanking you, ara <3 
> 
> [special shoutout to my best gay bud, Alex, for crying over every single damn chapter i showed you even if those were crappy first drafts] 
> 
> thank you both for the support ily <3

May 20th, 2012  
2:14 PM

Ever since he was a child, Isagani loved the rain: he distinctly remembers how Tio Florentino would reprimand him—albeit with a silent laugh trapped in the gleam of fondness in his eyes—for charging into a torrent with absolutely no hesitations; sneezing fits and colds be damned. To his little five-year-old self; his heavy, soaked clothes were as good as the embrace of the mother he never knew; it was his homecoming, his _agape_. A part of Isagani wishes he could stay in his pre-pubescent years—when he showed signs of straddling the line between being a boy and a man, he stopped succumbing to the call of the raindrops pattering on his window. It, instead, turned into his muse. The drop in the temperature, the streets veiled in a curtain of rain, the little children (his mirror images from years ago) running around and shrieking gleefully were images that always ignited a spark—no, a _flare_ —of poetic inspiration in his chest. It burned so fiercely that Isagani usually had written around three poems before the last drop of water fell to the earth.

Isagani is now on the cusp of (legitimate) adulthood, and living in the city forged a lukewarm relationship between him and the phenomena he (used to) love the most. He stands under a dilapidated waiting shed as a light drizzle, an _ambon_ , descended over the city; a common occurrence during the summer days when even the atmosphere couldn’t take its own oppressive heat. The people scamper for cover; he checks his watch, his phone. A sigh escapes his breast. Tio was late, and he had not sent any messages or placed a single call. He had drawn Isagani out of his dorm room, promising to meet him there after he had finished saying goodbye to his colleagues (Isagani makes a mental note to ask him why he couldn’t stay to teach him), and he was fourteen minutes late.

Isagani debates fetching his uncle, but his gaze flickers to the horizon. He promptly decides against the idea with an amused chuckle and a shake of his head—it is a scene all too familiar to him, and he knew what is coming.

The sky is divided into two, the dark battling the light. Two opposing sides in a conflict, a storm brewing. Isagani thinks it is fascinating yet bizarre to see the universe unable to make its mind up, as if it were human, as if it were like him. He catches sight of a lightning bolt slicing through a thick layer of grey clouds; the resonating rumble that follows soon after reverberates in his ears. Isagani feels it in his bones—it is a warning, a call, a message from the heavens that told the people down below what was coming. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth—nobody seemed to be listening except for him, and he knew he is going to be stuck there until Tio arrived.

(Tio told him to pack an umbrella. How had he forgotten?)

He shakes the thought out of his head, choosing to watch the people passing him by. People in the cities were bizarre in his eyes—maybe it’s because he has only lived in the city for a total of twenty days, but he doesn't understand why they hurried too much, as though they raced the hands of time every day; he wonders why they constantly looked worried, with frowns permanently etched onto their foreheads; he hates how they grew as hardened and as cold as the pavement they walked on, compassion and kindness completely trampled underneath their feet. He couldn’t believe he’d ever felt excited about living in the suburbs (getting accepted into _the_ Ateneo made that a nightmare come true)—it was terrifying, as far as Isagani could tell. It was a free trial of the harsh world of adulthood, and he wasn’t prepared for it enough.

Isagani gazes at the pedestrians crossing the highway, searching the sea of unfamiliar faces for the familiarity of his uncle’s.

He still isn’t among them, but Isagani finds something—someone—more interesting.

Usually, it is the yellows, the oranges, the pinks, and the reds that draw the attention of the eyes away from the backdrop of a seemingly meek and pale world. To be drawn to the color black is a rare occurrence—unless it is the only dark, cool, _silent_ color one can see amidst a sea of raucous neons or cheerful pastels. The color black is aloof and isolated, it is shunned and feared, it is enigmatic and awesome. It—he, wrapped in the obsidian hoodie with the hood shielding his head from the assault of the light shower that befell them—has successfully taken Isagani’s attention by the damn neck. He is unable to tear his eyes away from the stranger idly crossing the road, strong and silent and isolated from the laughter and the chatter that surrounded him.

Isagani is a poet, he wanted to say the guy looked mysterious and powerfully independent against the canvas of the people around him that seemed to cling to each other; yet a part of him did not want to sugarcoat anything: he looked awfully lonely. And stiffly stoic. And out of place, just like him.

He drew nearer to the sidewalk where Isagani stood, just a little over eight paces, and it is then that he sees the hard lines of his face: his strong jaw, his chin, his high cheekbones; all wrapped in skin that can only be described as _kayumanggi_. He passes him soon, and Isagani notes the hard neutrality that resided in his eyes and the firm line of his lips. A true Manila-bred Filipino, Isagani thinks; yet he thinks he is also more than that. He is regal, with the grace in his limbs and the certainty in his step.

He is amazing. Beautiful, even. Isagani thinks he may be overthinking the stranger’s features too much, but a strange warmth pools in his chest, followed by the burn of curiosity in his head.

He didn’t miss the Ateneo keychain hanging on his bag’s zipper. A strange flutter of glee erupts in the pit of his stomach at the thought of seeing him again.

(Isagani couldn’t take his mind off him after that. Tio Florentino was twenty minutes late, but frankly, he forgot about being impatient.)


	2. p a n g a l a w a : u l a n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isagani thinks he has the worst luck--that is, until a certain stranger comes to his rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pay attention to the dates c:

May 10th, 2013  
2:35 PM

To his fellow political science majors, Isagani came off as outspoken, confident, pretty damn determined, and ridiculously fucking brave; the hero who saved all of their asses during hellish recitations. He handled case readings and/or terror professors with the grace of the matrix, dodging every bullet thrown at him flawlessly. He can wing it like nobody’s business. He was—is—unstoppable and seemingly cut out for brilliance, but unbeknownst to all; that is as far as his confidence goes.

When it came to the matters of the heart or making the first move, he was a fucking klutz. He fell to pieces, he was an anxious mess, and he might have had at least two breakdowns before he worked up the courage to approach someone he took a liking to—his girlfriend, Paulita, can attest to that; it took him a copious amount of time before he actually _talked_ (just talked!) to her. So, given that fact, it did not come as a shock (both to him and the people who _knew_ ) when he found himself stuck in a never-ending limbo of furtive glances, shy smiles, and obscure fascination when it came to his mystery guy.

He found him, alright, after a solid year in Ateneo—and in the damn library, surrounded by a mountain of anatomy books, no less. At the end of his freshman year, Isagani broke his anonymity by finding him in the damn Dean’s List (all thanks to Makaraig, a friend he’d met on the debate team). He’d be lying if he denied going to the awarding ceremony—“I need to know if it _is_ him, Makaraig, don’t look at me like that!”—and subsequently found that his guy just finished his third year of higher education.

Suffice to say, he had a name to the face. But, all he did was watch as he wrote his notes furiously in a massive binder, as he tried to keep himself awake through chugging an entire bottle of Kopiko 78 in one go, as he almost caught him staring…

He can’t do it. To be fair, they hardly had anything in common, and a couple of friendly grins when they run into each other in the halls aren’t very good reasons to begin talking to him out of the blue.

Frankly, Paulita has had enough of his bullshit, he knows that much. If Isagani is someone one could call the jealous type, it was nothing compared to her. He _had_ to tell her what was going on (she is no stranger to his abstract musings, anyway) or risk her wrath in the long run. She forgave him the first time. But, as Isagani’s excitement grew, her aggravation grew, too.

“Look,” she had said, via phone call, three days ago. “I get it, you’ve finally found him. But to be honest, I don’t get what this obsession with him is all about. Tell me honestly, Gani: are you gay?”

Isagani couldn’t believe his ears; the words fell like a hard blow to the gut. He honestly hadn’t thought of it that way—as far as he was concerned, he just wanted the courage to talk to someone whom he felt some strange and obscure connection with, one-sided as it may be (he feels stupid just thinking about it). The attraction was purely platonic, never romantic, he was sure. It had looked romantic to Paulita, and he knew for a fact that she was jealous.

After a solid minute of silence, he had cleared his throat. “No, I’m not, princess, I promise. I just—I’m sorry?”

“Mhm,” Paulita hummed. Isagani knew that tone: she definitely wasn’t buying it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am! I’m in a relationship with you, aren’t I?” Isagani rubbed a hand over his face, falling back onto his pillow. “Look, I’m sorry. If you want, we can go out on Friday. My treat. It’s also the last opportunity we have to go out; I’m leaving for Tio’s on Saturday.”

“Okay,” Paulita replied casually. Isagani knew she was feeling marginally better, judging from the slight lilt in her voice. “Okay. You gonna come pick me up?”

“Yeah, sure. See you, then?”

\--

It’s Friday.

Isagani is standing outside the Rizal Library, watching as a thick curtain of rain veiled the city beyond the trees, growing more and more frazzled as every minute on Kuya Guard’s huge wall clock ticks by. Katipunan _and_ Taft traffic were forces to be reckoned with, and if Isagani didn’t want to provoke Paulita’s rage, he had to leave as early as possible. Her classes end three hours later, and with luck, he might be able to get to La Salle in an hour.

That is, if he could leave immediately.

Which he couldn’t do, due to the absence of an umbrella. Hell, he didn’t even have a jacket to protect him from the assault of the water. He could always opt to wait out the rain, but it didn’t show any signs of weakening, let alone stopping and Isagani didn’t have _that_ much time.

A sigh escapes Isagani’s breast. There was only one thing left to do, so he reaches inside his backpack, making sure all of his papers were sealed in his clear book. He steels his nerves. Running under the rain for someone else was a romantic gesture, right?

(Besides, if Paulita were to fuss over him because of it, he certainly wouldn’t mind. Not at all.)

He takes a step; he had forgotten how it felt to bathe in the rain, and while it may seem untimely, Isagani couldn’t deny he missed the cold, feeling the tiny drops settle on his skin—

“Hey?”

Isagani pulls back immediately at the greeting; his head whipping around to find the source of the word, soaked shoe forgotten. Something in his chest immediately plummets to his wet hemline at the sight of the familiar black hoodie, the same hard eyes (Isagani startles at the presence of black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose), the signature cool, calm, and collected façade.

Basilio. Basilio, technically the reason he is in that particular situation, is talking to him. _Looking_ at him with something akin to a mixture of bemusement and alarm.

“Were you going to walk under _that_?” He asks incredulously, nodding towards the direction of the torrent.

Isagani’s brows furrow. He’d (embarrassingly enough) imagined various scenarios of their first encounter, but none of them involved him catching him on the verge of doing something… stupid. The other man knocked the words right out of Isagani’s tongue; partly due to embarrassment and partly due to the fact that he _finally_ talked to him.

“Um,” Isagani stammers, averting his eyes. “I don’t really have much of a choice and I have to be somewhere important, so…”

Basilio’s face relaxes, his shock morphing into that of understanding and empathy. He nods and joins Isagani; shooting him a small smile as he does.

“Well, me too.”

It is taking every ounce of Isagani’s self-control to not gape at him in surprise. His pulse pounds inside his chest and he swallows the momentary panic building up in his throat— _what do I say? What do I do? What the actual fu_ —

“Where do you need to go?”

His voice; a deep, smooth baritone, carried a certain tenderness, a certain softness. Hearing him speak is a nice change from talking to his blockmates—they were always too hard, too harsh, too brash, too loud. Isagani knew how blunt and troublesome words can be on different tongues, but they seemed gentler and kinder when they roll off Basilio’s. He could—he wanted—to talk to him forever.

The thought stuns Isagani, but he shoves it into a dark corner of his mind. He’d inspect that later; when the city is asleep and no one can hear his thoughts but him.

“Outside.” Isagani blurts out. A flicker of amusement flashes across Basilio’s face; he backtracks as he realizes how that must have sounded. “I mean, I just need to get out of the campus and onto a jeepney, you know, because you can’t possibly take me to Taft—can you?”

He laughs; the sound a ray of light breaking through the dark clouds and the raging downpour. All the tension Isagani felt beforehand practically leaches out of his body—it’s a start. He made him laugh.

“No, I definitely can’t,” Basilio says, shifting so he can reach into his backpack. “But I _can_ share an umbrella with you and get you _outside_.”

Isagani rolls his eyes at the reference, yet a grin tugs at his lips nonetheless. “Yeah, okay, that would be nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Basilio opens the umbrella, and with a nod of his head, he invites Isagani to stand beside him. “Isagani, right?”

Isagani is unable to suppress the astonishment in his features (and humiliatingly, his damn voice.). He thinks he may be hallucinating, but it seemed as if his savior is fighting back a teasing grin. “Wha—whoa, okay, how did you know my name?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Makaraig absolutely adores you. I mean, I get why; he and Pecson told me there aren’t many people who can shut down attorney Pasta. I’m not sure how they knew that, though, you’re a year below us. Also, Father Fernandez is a professor of mine; he may have mentioned you once or twice in class. The man practically sees you as a member of the faculty.”

For the second time in a span of ten minutes, Isagani is speechless. “Wow. I don’t—I had no idea—“

“That you were so popular?” Basilio finishes for him as he nods. “Yeah, you are. You made it to the medical building. Also, you’re pretty much a campus heartthrob. I’m surprised you didn’t notice the number of girls—“

He releases a small cough, a cheeky grin playing at his lips. “—and, um, members of the LGBT community falling at your feet.”

“Wow,” a nervous laugh bubbles from Isagani’s throat. “It’s kinda hard to when you’ve got a girlfriend and Plato in your head 24/7. And hey, you’re one to talk, _Basilio_! Your grades are legendary.”

It is his turn to look dumbfounded: his head whips towards Isagani, an expression of shock coloring his features. Isagani was wrong for thinking him cold and stoic—he is the exact opposite with his deep, expressive eyes and vibrant facial expressions that change in the blink of an eye. “What? Oh, wow, I thought you didn’t know me.”

“Makaraig—I met him at the debate club—may have shown me the Dean’s List with your name on it—“ Isagani falters. Makaraig had told each of them about the other, yet he never bothered introducing them, _the bastard_! “—anyway, you’ve made quite a name for yourself; I’ve heard you’re phenomenal in the laboratory.”

Basilio shrugs, casting his eyes down to his mud-flecked shoes. “Well. I have to be if I want to keep studying here for free.”

A plethora of new questions form in Isagani’s head; only held back by the fact that they’ve only literally started talking five minutes ago. Though he can be intrusively curious, he knew he isn’t in the right place to dig up the Basilio that lay beneath the surface. Something told him he needed to earn Basilio’s pure, unadulterated trust before he can pry, and he seemed to be the kind of person who kept everyone at arm’s length.

It wouldn’t be easy, but Isagani is willing to take on that challenge.

“Well,” Basilio says, and it is then Isagani realizes they’ve reached the campus gates. “Here we are. I got you _outside_.”

“Oh, my god, you’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Basilio says smugly. “It isn’t every day I get to see _the_ Isagani inarticulate.”

“You don’t _see_ me every day, Basilio.” Isagani rolls his eyes as he hails a jeepney. “We’re not even blockmates. Anyway, thank you for getting me here, you’re a lifesaver.”

“I mean, I _am_ studying to be a doctor, so…”

With a final snort, Isagani ducks into the jeepney. “Bye, Basilio!”

When the vehicle rounds the corner and Basilio’s form vanishes from his view, it is only then Isagani lets himself feel the warmth, the contentment simmering underneath the surface of his clenched jaw and gritted teeth; threatening to leak out from the minuscule cracks in his façade.

Frankly, he doesn’t know where that places him in Basilio’s book, but it felt like the start of a beautiful friendship.

_Just that and nothing more._  
\--

June 1st, 2013  
4:54 PM

Basilio actually said hi—not in the form of a nod, or a simper, or five seconds of eye contact—when they met in the library.

That, alone, was enough to put him in a good mood for the entire week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly think Isagani's the shy, blubbering type when it comes to people he likes (loves). Especially when they haven't spoken yet. Look, I know he's _very_ capable of holding his own while giving speeches and I know he exudes an aura of authority and confidence, but matters of the heart are harder to deal with than speeches and poems, yes? c: 
> 
> (It's also canon that he blushes and falls silent around them... the Placido Penitente chapter, anyone?) 
> 
> also, just a heads-up: the third chapter _might_ come in a little late because it was bothering me and i didnt want you guys to see something i, myself, cringe so hard at (also,, it's like,, the second week of the semester and i have a feeling i'm going to be swamped even more). that's that, thank you so much for giving this lil thing a chance  <3


	3. p a n g a t l o : k u l o g  a t  k i d l a t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, playing 20 Questions is another form of celebration. Isagani never thought of it that way.

May 27th, 2014  
10:35 PM  


Isagani has been in Basilio's immediate circle of friends for over a year now. Of course, that meant being in close proximity with him, and given Isagani’s penchant for paying attention to the little things; he constantly finds himself noticing obscure details in Basilio’s behavior. Like: how his lips moved as though he was uttering a prayer while he memorizes the human anatomy; how he liked color-coded notes; how he talked medical jargon as though it was his first language; how he took taking care of Isagani’s health (“No, Isagani, no more coffee, you’re going to OD on caffeine!”) into his own hands; how he liked doing the asking and never the answering when it came to personal questions.

Even then, 365 days of friendship warranted him a spot in Basilio’s graduation entourage; a reserved spot that was supposed to be for a brother, a sister, a grandparent, or, honestly, just any family member. Apparently, Basilio considered _him_ family now. It’s been something that Isagani couldn’t wrap his mind around ever since he entered the gym; ever since he tried to find a ghost of him in the eyes of every mother, father, and child that came to celebrate their graduate’s success.

For a brief moment, Isagani had feared he would be sitting alone beside two empty seats—was that the reason Basilio hardly ever talked about his family and answered vaguely in the rare chances that he did? Was it because he, like him, did not have a family? 

But then she came into view, and Isagani had known—one look and he knew she was Basilio’s mother; one look and he figured that the taller man must be his brother. All it took was one look at the radiant, yet soft smiles gracing their faces; strikingly similar to the one that was stretched across Basilio’s lips as he found him through the dense throng of people mulling around. Basilio turned to his family to say something, pointing him out—three sets of eyes found his own, and for a moment, Isagani felt his heart drop into his leather shoes. 

He was going to meet Basilio’s family. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel anxious or honored. 

(And, well, it didn’t help that blue was _so_ Basilio’s color, and that his slicked-back hair made his toes curl—Isagani takes a mental step back. Friends don’t notice that, right?)  
“Hey, dude!” Basilio said, greeting him with his arms spread. It took Isagani a moment to figure that he, Mr. Please Don’t Touch Me, was asking for a _hug_. “Thank you so much for coming!” 

“Thanks for inviting me.” Isagani caught himself returning Basilio’s sudden display of affection—which was a first, another thing he couldn’t wrap his head around—and noted, inadvertently so, that he smelled like lemons. “I really could’ve just joined Juanito and Placido, you know.” 

A light laugh escapes Basilio’s lips as he led Isagani to his seat. “What, and have you suffer for three hours at the hands of those two? Never. Besides, you’re practically family now. It’s about time my mother met you.” 

Isagani almost falters in his step. _Family?_ “Wait, what do—“ 

“Is this kuya Gani?” The taller man asked, shooting his brother a look of pure incredulity. Isagani’s gaze drops to Basilio, who answered his sibling’s question with a smug smirk and a subtle nod. “Oh, man, now I unde—“ 

“That’s enough, Crispin!” Basilio cuts him off; a forced chuckle escaping his chest. “Um, okay. Isagani, this is Crispin, my little brother—“ 

“Hey! I’m tall—“ 

“And this is my mom.” A soft smile curves at his lips as he stands next to his mother and puts his arm around her. She was beautiful, no doubt about that: though her eyes were deep and dark, Isagani felt a certain sense of homely warmth just by looking at them; her pale lips were curved into a grin; her golden brown skin glowed, and though both of her sons were relatively taller than she was; her presence was stronger, grace and poise evident in her stance. With a start, Isagani noticed Basilio looked the most like her. Crispin still had her eyes, but Basilio was a damn near-perfect copy. 

He understood how Basilio managed to catch his eye two summers ago. 

“Oh, my.” To his surprise, she slipped out from under her son’s arm to come closer, studying his face intently. “You must be the famous Isagani. My son has mentioned you quite a lot of times at the dining table.” 

A nervous chuckle escapes his lips, and he doesn’t dare look at Basilio; unable to figure out how to process the words that fell from his mother’s lips. What Crispin was about to say before he cut him off. They won’t ever lie, right? Was Basilio hiding something from him, or was he imagining it, again letting his penchant for interpreting statements in a million different ways get in the way? 

Either way, Isagani didn’t have enough time to figure it out—she had taken him into a hug, forcing him to bend down to her level. 

What she whispered in his ear pretty much scrambled his mind for the rest of the evening: “Thank you, for keeping my son happy.” 

 

_Thank you, for keeping my son happy_.

Isagani shakes the thought out of his head; his eyes immediately finding him. If he were to be honest, he would say Basilio is pretty hard to miss—the guy had cleaned up _really_ , really good, wearing his slicked-back hair once again, along with a formal button-down—he stood across Makaraig's ridiculously lavish living room, listening intently to something Placido was saying; his brow furrowed in concentration ever-so-slightly. Isagani knew the meaning of that particular crease: he was trying to make sense of what the other was saying, unsure whether he agrees with the idea presented to him or not. He got that look often when Isagani talked legal matters to him. He didn't need to hear what the topic was about; he just knew it was a terrain Basilio could not tread.

Probably politics. But judging from Placido's academic forte, it was most likely Philosophy.

He looks perfectly fine, but Isagani couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of watching the calm before the storm: after the ceremonies last night, he told him he wanted to celebrate with his family while they were complete, because _Tita_ Sisa (she had told him to call her that sometime during the graduation; it still felt weird on his tongue) was due to return to the province in the morning. After that, Basilio was pretty adamant on keeping his distance from Isagani—the only time he sent him a text was a few hours before they were to leave for Makaraig’s party. 

He had a feeling he knew why: last night left too many questions in Isagani’s head, and Basilio knew him well enough to know that he would ask them as soon as they were alone.  
Isagani tried not to be offended. 

"You know," Makaraig says, sidling up to him casually, a flute of champagne in hand. "I've been friends with him for over three years now, and he still remains to be such a closed book."

Isagani hums absentmindedly, unable to tear his gaze away from the small smile that materialized across his lips. "A closed book opens up eventually."

“Oh?” Isagani lifts a shoulder in a shrug. Out of his periphery, he could see Makaraig arching an eyebrow at him. 

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I met his family last night, at the ceremonies.”

“What?” The surprise is evident in Makaraig’s voice. “Wait, what? You _met_ them?” 

Isagani turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. “Yes? Basilio had me sit with them. Didn’t you see?” 

“You met his mother?”

“Yes, and his little brother. Why, haven’t you guys met them yet? You were friends with him longer than I have.”

“Damn. I mean, you know, he actually warmed up to you faster than he did to any of us." At this, Makaraig hides the ghost of a smile playing on his lips by taking a sip of his champagne. “We’ve met Cris, but we haven’t met his mom yet. Do you have any idea what this means?” 

“No?”

"It means you're actually pretty damn lucky, if you didn't know that yet."

The information takes Isagani by surprise. A bizarre warmth and a surge of fondness for the man in question courses through his veins, and he is unable to suppress the small simper tugging at the corners of his mouth. At that exact moment, Basilio turns his head towards their direction ever-so-slightly, meeting his eyes.

He wrinkles his nose at him, pulling a face just as Placido isn’t looking (too preoccupied with Juanito, apparently). Isagani snorts.

"If that's the case, then I _am_ lucky."

\--

May 27th, 2014  
11:48 PM

Basilio sits casually on Makaraig’s marble countertop, idly swirling his glass of red wine. He had joined Isagani—who sought refuge in the empty kitchen after Juanito and Sandoval slipped from the clutches of sobriety—five minutes ago; walking into the kitchen with an expression of sheer exhaustion and a relieved _Thank God I found you, they’re driving me insane_. Isagani had nodded solemnly, knowing full well that the party (composed of a pernicious combination of alcohol and his friends) had taken a turn for the bizarre and the wild.

“You know what,” Basilio says, studying the liquid in his glass with distaste. Isagani arched an eyebrow. “I just came to a decision, and I’m—“

He pauses, and Isagani looks up from his phone—in the middle of texting Paulita—to shoot him a questioning look. He knew he had to listen; those words never rolled off of Basilio’s tongue, he usually went with his impulses.

“—going to need something stronger than this. Yes. That’s it, definitely.”

Isagani has seen (and heard) a lot of _unconventional_ things from Basilio, but that one definitely takes the cake. For one, it isn’t an obscure fact about the human body or viruses or deadly diseases. Second, it completely negates the whole _I don’t drink_ statement Basilio had told their entire friend group one after-finals night, and to be quite honest, Isagani doesn’t think he heard Basilio right.

(To be fair, he’d already broken that image when he accepted his first glass of wine. Handed to him by none other than Tadeo, of course.)

He finishes sending Paulita a good night text before he lets his disbelief show on his face. His head shoots up, only to find Basilio sitting next to an empty wine glass with a look—the _I’ve made up my mind and there is no way in hell you’re going to make me change it_ look—on his face.

Isagani is reeling in disbelief. “Are you serious? How many glasses have you had?”

“Just two, and I’ve already… _excreted_ the other one.” Basilio shrugs. “This wine just won’t do.”

“Okay,” Isagani says slowly, unsure of where the conversation is headed. “Because…?”

At this, a sly smirk curves over Basilio’s lips—Isagani is amazed and a little terrified at the mischief clear in his dark irises; a look he never thought he would see on his face. “You’ll see. Are you in or what?” 

The longer Isagani took to answer, the thinner the layer of Basilio’s lightheartedness became—it melts away to reveal an interior of desperation and defeat—it is then he understands: this is the moment he’s waited for. 

_A closed book opens up eventually_.

“I’m not asking for your permission—“ 

“I know you aren’t.” Isagani cuts him off with a nod as he stows his phone away in his back pocket. ”What do you have in mind?” 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
12:08 AM

Isagani isn’t sure what he expected, but it sure isn’t this.

After booking it from Makaraig’s party, Basilio had told him he was taking them both home; then he proceeded to lead him down at least three streets lined with houses big enough for a family of ten. Isagani hardly had time to be bewildered by or think about the fact that he has never seen where Basilio lived nor heard him speak about it before, because in fifteen minutes, Basilio had them both standing in front of a huge house—no, scratch that, to call it that would be a sheer understatement, it was a damn mansion. To Isagani’s bemusement, he had marched up the door and spoken on the intercom (“ _Kuya, Basilio po ito!_ ”).

The gate had swung open to let them in. Again, Isagani didn’t have the time to be impressed by the sprawling lawn or the driveway or the damn _double_ front doors, because Basilio had headed for the back door.

That is how Isagani found himself seated on an expensive-looking barstool; unsure whether to admire the sleek, clean, posh interior, the gorgeous painting hanging on the wall in the adjacent dining area, or the sheer ostentatiousness of the kitchen alone or to be worried, because apparently, Basilio had found the liquor he was looking for.

It isn’t just any ordinary liquor—it is _Lambanog_ , of all things, the pride and joy of local drinkers and the strongest alcohol he has heard of.

(Based on the stories back in the province, Tio Florentino’s warnings, and one unfortunate post-finals Friday night with Makaraig and the rest of the crew, this one made vodka seem like _Zest-O_.)

Isagani stares apprehensively at the amber liquid contained peacefully—once again, the calm before the storm—in its crystal bottle. “Basilio?”

He answers from somewhere in the pantry, where he had gone down in search for a shot glass. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?”

Basilio doesn’t respond until he emerges from the small room a solid minute later, a small glass in his hand, an eyebrow arched in barely-there irritation. “Yes, I am very sure. Are _you_ sure about this?”

“Of course?” Isagani replies. Apparently, Basilio had picked up on the question in his tone, because he placed a hand on his hip, leaned on the doorway, and stared back at him with an expression that said, _really_? “I mean, okay. What are we going to do, anyway?”

Basilio shrugs casually. 

“We’re going to play 20 questions.” 

His eyes land on the two shot glasses in his hands, to the liquor resting on the counter in front of him, to Basilio, who was suppressing a cheeky grin. The pieces clicked.  
As Isagani’s eyes widened, Basilio’s grin did, too. 

“Oh, no.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“I have classes tomorrow.” Isagani deadpans, shaking his head. “I’m not drinking. One of us needs to stay sane.” 

Basilio snorts, pushing himself off the doorway. “It’s just this one time. I’m not asking you to get piss-drunk, you know, just a slight buzz. We need complete and total honesty if we want to get anywhere.” 

“Anywhere?” Isagani sinks his teeth into his lip, fighting the smile threatening to break over his lips. It was stupid, but it sent his heart asunder when it really shouldn’t, and Isagani is a damn _slave_ to his emotions. Sometimes. “Where are we going?” 

“To my room.” The graduate rolls his eyes at Isagani’s attempt at _platonic_ flirting with him. “Or, you know, if you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe for a walk along the shore or something?” 

“Nice try. There aren’t any beaches in Katipunan.” 

“You got me.” Basilio laughs, taking the bottle by the neck. “But seriously, come on. We’re doing this in my room.” 

He starts walking, but Isagani sits, transfixed at his retreating back: his laughter, that genuine, wonderful melody, and the grin that came along with it, the one that wasn’t just a half-hearted attempt at one, still echoed and reverberated through his ears and in his head. 

He wanted to hear it again. 

Isagani shuts his eyes to shake off the thought, then he jumps off the stool to follow him. 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
12:56 AM

For all its size and architectural beauty, the house lacked a certain spirit, a certain feeling of homeliness that told Isagani a family lived there; he realized that after following Basilio through a labyrinth of cold tile and beige walls. He spotted numerous doors that probably led to different rooms, but that was it. No, there were no pictures on the wall (well, there was a large painting of a young woman in one of the hallways), just abstract images and/or paintings. There were no toys, no clutter, _nothing_. The house felt like a hollow shell of something that used to live, and suddenly Isagani understood why Basilio ended up in his dorm most of the time: the emptiness was consuming, the silence, deafening.

Basilio’s room was the only place in the house that gave off the impression that it is, in fact, a human’s living quarters.

It is of a veritable size; complete with a double bed, a large cabinet, a bathroom in the far corner of the room, a bookshelf mounted on the wall, and a study table (complete with a computer, no less) the size of a corporate boss’s office desk. A large whiteboard stood behind the said desk, covered with markings of (as expected) various colors and posters of the human anatomy. Isagani got the feeling the room was lavishly furnished sometime before and Basilio got rid of anything that wasn’t necessary; replacing them with what he needed.

In short, his room looks like a cross between a bedroom and an office—it’s a slight improvement from the rest of the house, but it still held a certain stiffness—maybe it was because of the last lingering evidence of how hard Basilio worked. Maybe it was the sense of loneliness in the room. 

Maybe it was the lack of photos, pictures of Basilio and his family. Now that he knew Basilio _did_ have one, where were the memories of them? Where were their ghosts?  
Basilio yanks open his curtains, effectively breaking Isagani’s reverie. Behind it lay a huge bay window with enough space to fit the two of them. Not only that, it provided a decent view of the mansion’s backyard, and, consequently, the pouring rain that began to fall a few minutes ago.

“Wow.” Isagani breathes. “This room is—“

“Ridiculous?” Basilio finishes, lowering himself onto the window ledge. He pats the space next to him, an invitation for Isagani to join him. “C’mere. It’s comfy.”

He takes the space opposite Basilio, sitting with one leg tucked under the other. As soon as he’s settled, Basilio sets the shot glasses in between them and starts filling them up to the brim, much to Isagani’s horror.

The man sitting across him grins devilishly—for a moment, Isagani fears he may have joined the wrong person. But then he laughs, and Isagani would know that laugh _anywhere_. 

“Don’t look so terrified,” Basilio says, grinning at him. “The only time one of us is allowed to take a shot is when the questions get too personal. Also, you can stay here for the night, if ever we both end up drunk. And don’t worry; I know what to do should one of us get alcohol poisoning. It’s okay.”

Isagani snorts. “Right, of course you would. I thought you didn’t drink?” 

“I just graduated. Isn’t that enough of an excuse to do so?” 

“Yeah, but in a party. With the others.” 

“Just trust me, Gani.” Basilio’s gaze shifts to the pouring rain for a moment, the mischief disappearing. Before he could ask what was wrong, Basilio sits up once again. “Okay! First question—“ 

“Wait, why do you get to go first?” 

\--  
May 28th, 2014  
1:08 AM

“Fourth question: who is your… first love?”

Basilio stiffens, the ghost of the grin that resided on his lips disappearing. Isagani wonders whether he got too personal—his mouth opens, ready to take back the question; when Basilio grabs the untouched shot glass and downs it in a second.

“Her name was Juli. Juliana de Dios.” Basilio’s voice is hoarse. Isagani ignores the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “She was a childhood friend and we dated through high school, but towards the latter end of the senior year, she, uh, she died.” 

Isagani is stunned into silence, unable to say anything except for a measly “Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“No, I guess it was a far better fate than to live with the weight of what he did to her.” The anger in his friend’s voice is palpable, and Isagani _knows_ what happened even before Basilio explains it.

Basilio doesn’t explain, anyway. Isagani doesn’t ask. 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:10 AM

“Who’s your current crush?”  
“Jesus, Basilio, what is this, high school?”  
“Your last question was too heavy. Humor me.”  
“I have a girlfriend?”  
“Right. Okay. So you’re saying you don’t find anyone admirable just because you have a girlfriend?”  
“Well, I _do_ , but I wouldn’t call it a _crush_. That word has a bad reputation. It can never be innocent.”

Basilio laughs. “You’re such a nerd.” 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:18 AM

“Would you get married?” 

Basilio mulls it over, tilting his head at Isagani. “Huh. Good question. I don’t think so, though. I think my dreams of starting a family was crushed when Juli died.”  
Isagani swallows down the bitter taste of jealousy that lingered in his mouth. He isn’t sure where it came from—it never had a place in his system, anyway.

(He wants to blame it on the _Lambanog_ , but he remembers he hasn’t even taken a shot yet.) 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:25 AM

“How many children would you have?”  
“Two. It’s easier to take care of two.”  
“Oh. So you don’t want to start a basketball team, or something?”  
“Basilio, do I look like I care about sports?”  
“Well.”  
“Exactly.”

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:30 AM

“Do you have a creed?”  
“Wow. That sounds like a question only you would ask.”  
“Well, I _am_ the one asking it, aren’t I?”  
“Whatever, Gani. Anyway, we medical students are taught one very important thing: to never do harm. I guess that’s it, though I never really realized how much it applied to me until I heard it.”  
“That’s deep.”  
“I’m honored. I lived up to your standards even without being poetic.”  
“I wasn’t expecting you to?”  
“But I still did, anyway. Be proud of me.”  
“I _am_ proud of you. Very.” 

\-- 

May 28th, 2014  
1:36 AM

“You might want to take a shot for this.” 

Basilio grins at him, a futile attempt at suppressing the giddy laugh that emanated from his lips. 

“I’m terrified.”  
“Don’t be.”

Isagani takes the shot, anyway, his first one of the night. The alcohol burns as it makes its way down his throat, but it sends a familiar spike of bravery through his veins, nonetheless. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Isagani groans and Basilio bursts into raucous laughter. 

“We’ve talked about this! Virginity is a social construct—“  
“—that places the value of a human being on whether they’ve had sexual intercourse or not; which, therefore, degrades the person to a mere sexual object. Yes, Gani, I know.”  
“What is up with all these questions?”  
“Just answer it, please?”  
“What does this have to do with our friendship?”  
“It’s a different level of intimacy. Come on, I’m still a virgin! There you have it, now answer me.”

“God. Okay, fine.” A sigh escapes Isagani’s breast; heat rises to color his skin. He avoids Basilio’s expectant eyes and turns to the window, watching as a steady stream of water flows down the window. “Yes. I still am.”

“Oh, dude. You’ve never done it with Paulita?”  
“Uh, no, obviously. I, um, I wanted to wait until marriage…?”  
“What?”  
“We tried, I swear. It just—it just didn’t feel right, for some reason.”  
“Huh.” 

He lifts his head to find a small, fond smile gracing Basilio’s face. 

“You’re looking at me weird,” Isagani says apprehensively, tilting his head. “What is it?”  
“Nothing.” 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:41 AM

“Would you write me a Eulogy if I died?”  
“That is… morbid.”

“Humor me,” Isagani says in an imitation of Basilio’s voice. 

“I do not sound like that.” He replies, trying to look disgruntled. His façade collapses—he rolls his eyes and grins, and Isagani grins back. 

“So, would you?”  
“I wouldn’t. I’d just read one of your poems.”  
“Why?”  
“I don’t want them to remember you by what I remember you by; whatever moments you shared with me remain between the two of us. I want them to remember you by the beauty of your words. By what your soul said when they didn’t listen. By what your heart beat for. By who you truly were, based on what you wrote. My memories would be tainted by what you were to me, I don’t want that. I want them to remember _you_.”  
“Damn, Basi, that’s deep. And beautiful. Thank you.”  
“Your poems _are_ beautiful, Gani. I don’t understand why you don’t let the world see them.”  
“They aren’t ready for them.” 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:45 AM

“Do you feel like your appearance is an accurate representation of the real you?”  
“That’s a question for Placido. Why are you asking me that?”  
“Because I feel as if you could give me a better answer.”  
“Can I just say something?”  
“Shoot.”  
“I feel as if the drunker you get the deeper your questions become.”  
“I’m not even drunk yet. I’ve had one shot, Gani. Your hypothesis is false.”  
“And _I’m_ the nerd?”  
“Yes? Why aren’t you answering the question?”  
Isagani pauses, tilting his head up towards the ceiling.  
“No. Just like poetry, not everything should be taken at surface value. There are still some parts of me that I wouldn’t show. There are parts of me only a select people know. They all think they’ve witnessed _me_ , without pretensions, distortions, illusions, or secrecy, but they’re wrong.”  
“Am I wrong?”  
“Do you think this is who I truly am?”  
“No. Not really. I don’t think so. You’re an enigma, Gani.”  
“You are one, too, but well, you’re not wrong.”  
“Will I ever be right?”  
“I don’t know. We’ll see.” 

Isagani doesn’t think Basilio could see him through the veil of his words. Deep down, there are things he’s better off not knowing.

\--

May 28th, 2014  
1:57 AM

“Third to the last question: What—what happened to your family?”

At this, they sit in silence, just watching the rain fall against the glass. Isagani couldn’t help himself—he soon finds himself gazing at Basilio’s side profile, as he clenches and unclenches his jaw; as his chest rises and falls with every breath; as his eyes flutter shut. Lightning flashes, casting brief shadows on his face; illuminating the desolation tried to hide from him. It is a sudden change from the light banter and friendly conversation—the longer Basilio takes to answer, the more nervous Isagani gets; the closer he gets to taking back his question. 

But then, Basilio reaches for another shot. And another. 

Isagani doesn’t have the heart to tell him he broke the rules. 

“I should’ve known you would notice I didn’t have a father.” Basilio chuckles somberly. “Well, he’s dead. And before you can tell me ‘I’m sorry’, I’m going to stop you—because frankly, his death ended the entire family’s suffering, too.”

A subtle flush crawls up Basilio’s face. He pauses to recollect himself, shaking his head. 

“God, now I’m feeling it. Anyway, he was a chronic gambler: more than half of our family’s funds—which wasn’t a lot, mind you—went into his cockfighting and his daily poker games. He was hardly ever home, and on the rare occasions that he was, he beat my mother when she didn’t have a single peso to give him. This went on for as long as I can remember, and one time, I even got caught in the crossfire—I was fourteen. I thought I was strong enough to take him on, but, well, I wasn’t. I went to school the next day with a black eye, a split lip, and multiple bruises and tiny cuts all over my body.” 

Isagani chews at his lip, nodding to let Basilio know he’s still listening. A surge of anger floods his chest, followed by a flash of empathy: he hurt for Basilio. It may have happened years ago, but as far as Isagani was concerned, Basilio didn’t deserve it. Tita Sisa, bless her heart, didn’t deserve it, either.

A pang of guilt reverberates in the hollows of his chest— _he deserved it_ , he thinks. _He deserved death_.

“He got killed when he couldn’t pay his debt. I was fifteen. My mother was devastated because, well, this may come as a huge surprise but she still loved him. Even after all the pain he put her through. We moved on eventually, but a few months after his death, my mother began to have nightmares of him. She always slept in our bed because lying in her own bed reminded her of the hits and the bruises and the crying. She was always on edge and could hardly sleep; and for a moment, she blamed herself for his death—she remembered how he always called her worthless and almost believed it. My mother, who always tried to be happy and strong for the both of us, became an entirely different person after that.”

There were no tears in Basilio’s eyes. Isagani watched him, and found only clenched fists and gritted teeth. 

“But, well, we moved on. It was a tough time helping her recover, but with a little help from the man she worked for, Ibarra, we got her the treatment she needed. I think it’s safe to say we’re okay now. I just graduated, Crispin’s in his third year of college. We’re okay.”

“I—honestly, I’m speechless.” Isagani says, chewing at his lip. “That’s—that’s fucked.”  
“You never swear.”  
“Now’s a good time to. You’re so strong, Basilio.”  
“I got it from her.”

\--

May 28th, 2014  
2:01 AM

“My turn: how did you get here?” 

Isagani arches an eyebrow. “Here?”

“In Ateneo.”  
“Oh. Well. My uncle used to teach here. In addition to that, he was a Jesuit priest, so it was only expected that I attend The Ateneo.”  
“Wait—uncle?” 

“Yeah, uncle,” Isagani’s lips curve into a somber smile. “He raised me ever since I was a kid. I’m an orphan.” 

“Oh.” Basilio is dumbfounded, Isagani could see he struggles to find the right words to say. “I—well. You never knew your parents?”

“Never. Tio told me my mother died giving birth to me, and my father followed soon after; he died with his car wrapped around a tree.”  
“I’m—I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be, it’s okay.”  
“Well, if it’s any consolation, my mother wouldn’t mind having another son.” 

\--

May 28th, 2014  
2:03 AM

“Okay, last question: how would you describe your sexuality?” 

Basilio mulls it over, leaning his head against the glass. “The best of both worlds, I guess? Or better yet, Bismuth. Look at the atomic symbol of Bismuth.” 

Isagani has a hunch as to what particular orientation Basilio was talking about, but he pulls his phone out to look for it, anyway. After a moment, Isagani couldn’t help himself: a laugh escapes his throat; a manifestation of the overpowering sense of delight that coursed through his veins. 

“Very clever, Basilio. This is a very clever way of coming out.”  
“I know, right? I’ve been waiting to make that joke ever since I figured it out.” 

On Isagani’s phone screen was the symbol for Bismuth, composed of two letters: Bi. 

\-- 

May 30th, 2013  
2:35 AM

_Tell me honestly, Gani: are you gay?_

Isagani still turns Paulita’s question around and around, over and over in his head and in his hands as he lies in the dark, trying to find solace in the rain that fell against his window, trying to figure out whether he answered it correctly. Honestly. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know. Isagani thinks he is screwed—it has been the third night that Paulita’s question broke the surface of his consciousness, sending a twinge of doubt racing through his system. Even then, it seemed to be the only thing that is clear in the muddy haze of his thoughts.

_Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're dorks. also, Basilio's father, Pedro, is abusive in canon (ref: Chapters 16-17 in NMT). 
> 
> and,, while we're at it, feel free to check out the [El Fili RP accounts](https://twitter.com/makata__) on twitter!! i linked Gani's, but you guys can find the others pretty easily in his Following list c: things just got wild lol


	4. p a n g - a p a t : b a g y o

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A catharsis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnng: Placido might be slightly ooc (that, and I might've placed him in Katip rather than España. Sorry?)

May 13th, 2015  
3:45 AM

A storm ravages Quezon City, and Isagani seems to be the only person awake to see it: a million droplets of water fall to the Earth relentlessly, leaving no patch of street dry; a strong wind gusts angrily through empty city streets; lightning illuminates the dark morning every few seconds, leaving a thunderous rumble in its wake. It pounds, it yells, and it roars. Isagani should be terrified, but he isn’t: instead, he is calmed by the sight of the steady stream of water flowing down his dorm room window, by the howls of the wind, by the brief and awesome light of the lightning, for Mother Nature seems to be one with him—for the past eight weeks, anger and confusion have been the only things Isagani has been able to feel, numbed only by his incessant (and probably exaggerated) studying. A maelstrom has been steadily building inside Isagani’s chest for a while now, hammering against his ribs, filling his lungs, taking over his better nature; begging for release.

It has been two months, and he still isn’t able to fathom completely why Paulita Gomez actually fucking _left_ him for dead, without so much as an explanation as to why she had suddenly booked it all the way to the United States of America, and with _Juanito Pelaez_ , of all people; breaking up with him indirectly. A part of him fears he already knew the answer: ever since Basilio came bursting out of the god damn closet, he has taken over his every thought. Suddenly, ending up with Basilio rather than Paulita seemed the better option. Suddenly, every little damn thing about Basilio—like his sleep-tousled hair early in the morning, or his voice just when he’s about to fall asleep, or the way he fussed over Isagani when he learns that he has had way too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep—felt so much more endearing. He had dismissed it as Basilio’s brotherly instinct, but he couldn’t help but feel as if something has changed between the two of them.

Of course Paulita would pick up on it. _Of course_ , what with the zoning out and the poems he wrote that wasn’t about her and the fact that Isagani spoke Basilio’s name with as much reverence as he did when he spoke about the Constitution.

 _God_. Was he always this transparent? If that was the case, he didn’t even have the right to be hurt—if anything, he _deserved_ Paulita’s abrupt departure.

Isagani shoves his head into his pillow in an attempt to pacify his thoughts; he forces himself to close his eyes. He tunes out the nagging, intrusive voices in his head and focuses on the sound of the summer storm, trying his best to keep himself grounded.

He lets it lull him to a dreamless sleep.

\--

May 14th, 2015  
7:39 AM

“You’re pushing him away.”

Placido’s voice breaks Isagani out of his momentary reverie. He shifts to glare at his roommate, who lay on his bed, idly reading one of his Philosophy books.

“Um,” Isagani clears his throat, his voice coming out gravelly after hours of silence. And guilty, he realizes with a cringe. “I’m—I’m not.”

At this, Placido rolls his eyes, setting his book down to glare at him. “Yes, you fucking _are_. Listen, I’ve lived with you for the entirety of three damn years, and that is enough time for me to pick up on your weird-ass habits. You’re studying yourself to death _even more_ , if that is humanly possible, and you haven’t charged your phone ever since it died two weeks ago. You haven’t touched a pen nor a sheet of paper in your pretentious journal, and to cap it all off, you haven’t talked to the poor guy ever since you shoved him out of this room and demanded space four weeks ago!”

“Yeah, well, in case you forgot, Placido, I’m getting over a _break-up_. It isn’t the easiest thing to do.” Isagani turns back to his law books, uncapping another highlighter, trying his best to shove down the guilt that was slowly crawling up his neck, making its way into his head. “And besides, we’ve got Finals in a few weeks. Basilio understands, I’m sure.”

“You do know that getting over a break-up is marginally easier when you have your friends around, right?”

“Well. I have _you_ around, and you certainly aren’t helping.”

“That is not the point, Gani.” Placido sighs exasperatedly, and he doesn’t need to look at him to know that he is mostly likely staring at his back with sheer frustration and disappointment written in his eyes. “My point is; you should talk to him. It’s high time you stopped avoiding him, he’s worried about you.”

\--

May 15th, 2015  
2:37 AM

_He’s worried about you._

Placido’s words bounce around his head and echo in his ears; perhaps the only sound louder than the tempest outside. Isagani presses the heels of his palms into his eyes; distinctly feeling the heat emanating from his skin and the warmth pooling in his chest. Basilio _cared_ , and if what Placido said was true, he also cared enough to let him have his space instead of bugging him incessantly.

(Okay, so he did intentionally forget about charging his phone, but still. He could’ve stormed into their dorm or sought him out at school, right? _Right_?)

Isagani promptly decides that he isn’t having any of _that_ , and stands up to make his way towards his study desk. His fingers have barely touched the lamp sitting on it when a pillow collides with the back of his head, sending him reeling.

“Fuck, Isagani,” Placido groans, annoyance evident in his sleep-hoarse voice. “I swear to God, if you turn that damn light on I will not hesitate to punch a hole in you.”

Isagani blinks at Placido, who is currently sitting up in his bed, his face buried in his hands. “I’m just—“

“ _No_.” The other student says decisively, throwing off his blankets and marching to the light switch. “No, this is getting out of hand. We are going to _talk_.”

Isagani has always had an amicable relationship with Placido ever since they were matched up during their freshman year. The communicated enough to set some ground rules and distribute chores; they debated and argued good-naturedly every time their studying called for it, and since both of them didn’t talk much, their primary form of connecting was through actions—replenishing the coffee stash, waiting up for the other, bringing the other food—their friendship was comfortingly domestic, but it didn’t run as deep as it did with Basilio.

“I’m sorry, what?” Isagani blinks in the sudden presence of light; at Placido’s sleep-mussed hair, slightly swollen eyes, old t-shirt, and less-than-happy demeanor. When he frowns, that is when Isagani knows he’s definitely serious about having a damn heart-to-heart talk.

He grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt and drags him over to his bed. Isagani could hardly protest in his shock; even as he shoves him down roughly. “Sit there. I’m going to make coffee, we both need it. And if you so much as take one step towards your damn books, I am going to tie you to your bed.”

Isagani isn’t one to be fazed by threats—he got them almost daily, along with a slew of insults, being a student of the law and all. But then, it was almost three in the morning, and he knew Placido well enough to know that he would willingly commit a felony against someone who disturbed his much-needed sleep.

He leans against the wall in resignation, running his hand through his hair. He swallows the bile threatening to crawl up his throat and wills his pulse to slow.

Placido meant business, and there is absolutely no way out of it.

\--

May 15th, 2015  
3:05 AM

Placido tucks his legs underneath him as he hands Isagani his cup. He looked marginally less angry and more somber; Isagani took that as a good sign. If anything, it was bizarre; since he hardly saw him show any emotion that isn’t related to being pissed.

“Okay, look. I—I talked to Juanito one last time before he—he left,” Placido stumbles over his words, something he never does. Huh. Weird. “And, um, apparently, his parents have been talking about marrying him off to some rich heiress because their empire was close to falling apart. That heiress happened to be Paulita Gomez, you know, because of her aunt and uncle’s business, and a few months ago, they sealed the deal. I don’t know why they left so early; since, um, Juanito left without—without another word, but that’s all I know. Did Paulita not tell you?”

 _So Paulita had been the other party in an arranged marriage, and she didn’t bother telling me. So much for honesty._ To Isagani’s surprise, the words didn’t cut as deep as they should; they just confirmed his worst fears. It fell on his numbed chest but didn’t do any real damage; Isagani knows he should be happy, but all he felt was dread.

“No,” he says, his voice hardly rising above a whisper. He avoids Placido’s eyes by stirring at the liquid in his mug. “She didn’t. Not a word. I deserved it, I guess. I—I gotta admit I haven’t been giving my all to our relationship.”

Something akin to a gleeful surprise is laced in Placido’s voice; whatever hurt Isagani detected in his voice had disappeared (again, _weird_ ). “Oh? Is this—is this about Basilio?”

“To be honest,” he looks up to find him hiding a knowing grin behind the rim of his own mug. “I—I don’t know? I thought—I thought I was straight?”

“Well. Judging from the way you look at Basilio and how adamant you are at avoiding him, I’d say you definitely _aren’t_ , and it isn’t rocket science to figure out that this is freaking you out.” Placido holds his hand up to silence Isagani, who was in the middle of opening his mouth to protest. “But, that’s okay. I get you. I felt the same way when I figured out I was asexual.”

“Asexual?”

“Yes, it means I don’t get _urges_ like you do. I’m only capable of romantic attraction, but never the sex. It’s tough, but I’ve learned to deal with it. Now, what’s up with you? You don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’re practically playing dodgeball with your own feelings?”

“What?” Isagani breathes incredulously. “I’m not—I’m not _playing dodgeball with my feelings_ —“

“I said it once, and I’ll say it again: you’ve been avoiding Basilio like he had the damn plague, Isagani. Jesus.”

At this, Isagani stands up to pace the floor; the storm brewing inside his chest too powerful to ignore. _Screw it_. “Yes, fine, okay, _that’s_ true, congratulations. But that’s just because, you know, I’ve always admired him ever since I first saw him, but I thought that’s all there was to it—me admiring him because he was an upperclassman, and he was pretty damn good at what he does. I thought I was going to be content with us being friends during my sophomore year. But then, I realized I started noticing every little damn thing about him that summer. It was pretty bizarre on my part, to be honest. And then, he came out to me when he graduated last year, and that was just… you know, the tipping point? That was when I began to question the legitimacy of my admiration—I mean, it just—it just doesn’t feel platonic anymore.”

He feels as if he is divulging too much information, but Placido seemed like the person less likely to start gossip. And besides, he’s way too far gone—to stop at that moment would be entirely too difficult, especially when the words he’d been long repressing are leaching out of him, _gushing_ out of him in torrents, in waves he could never resist.

And Placido actually _listened_. Intently, if he may add.

“Ever since I knew there was a possibility he could, I don’t know, _fall in love with me_ ; that has been the only thing on my mind. I hated it, I was confused, and I didn’t think Paulita would pick up on it, but she did. And now—now that I’ve lost her, there seems to be an open window of opportunity for me to come to terms with—“ He gestures to his body, frazzled. “Whatever _this_ is. I’m terrified, okay? I’m scared, Placido. I—I don’t want him to be my rebound. I think I’m a bisexual, and I’m—I’m just scared this might be a—a phase of some sort? Also, what if I _am_ in love with him, and it doesn’t work out?”

Placido nods in understanding, a small, knowing smile gracing his lips. “And what, you’re afraid of losing the closest friend you’ve ever had in years?”

Isagani swallows as he closes his eyes, trying his best to keep himself calm. “I guess. Maybe. Yeah.”

“You won’t, trust me.” He replies, giving him a dismissive wave of his hand. “You should go talk to him, about this, stat.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” Isagani arches an eyebrow, peering at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “I pretty much came out of the closet, and all you’re going to tell me is to profess my love for my best friend?”

“No, damn it.” Placido rolls his eyes. “I think you should talk to him, you know, just to show him you’re still alive—the man’s been asking for you for two damn weeks. As for your recent discovery regarding your sexuality: if it feels right to you and if you think it mirrors who you truly are inside, then it isn’t a phase. Being attracted to both of the sexes is a valid thing, Gani; there’s a ‘B’ in the acronym ‘LGBT’ for a reason. It isn’t ‘just a phase’ or a stepping stone to being gay, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know that,” Isagani says quietly. “It’s just… pretty damn hard to accept it once you’re actually feeling it.”

Placido’s tone softens. “It’s hard, I know; to accept yourself when you’re something society deems taboo, but fuck that. You can do it, Gani. If I know you, you’ll find a way to power through this.”

Isagani nods. The storm subsides but only vaguely; there is still the rumble of the thunder and the brief flashes of lightning and the howl of the wind that sends the last remaining doubt he had through his body. “What if—what if I tell him, and things change between the two of us?”

“Honestly?” Placido walks past him, grabs his unfinished cup too, to deposit their mugs into the sink. “Things can’t possibly change even more between the two of you. Besides, you have two choices: it’s either you tell him about this, minus profession of feelings, or you don’t; you can choose to come out once you feel as if you _can_.”

_Things can’t possibly change even more between the two of you._

One sentence, one too many implications: apparently, he wasn’t the only one who noticed the subtle changes between the two of them. Isagani would think about the other meanings that Placido’s statement implies, but the exhaustion in his bones brought about by his untimely catharsis is wearing him down.

He _does_ feel lighter, though. 

“ _Now_ can we go to sleep?” Placido asks, with a softer tone than the one he used minutes ago. “God, Isagani, we both have 8 AM classes. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

For the first time in weeks, Isagani laughs. He slides into his bed, shooting Placido a grateful smile. “Yes, now we can. Thank you, Placido.”

“You needed it. ‘Twas about damn time.”

For the first time in weeks, Isagani feels like he could actually _breathe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gani just needed a friend. Idk, I feel like they'd compliment each other??  
> (Pecson was my other choice, but I made him, Maks, and Basi batchmates so)   
> (Sandoval is taking his masters. heh)
> 
> Also, consider this as my compensation for failing to update last week lol 
> 
> (I had more to say, but I forgot. Meh.)


	5. p a n l i m a : b a h a g h a r i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (because #LoveWins.)

May 26th, 2016  
4:24 PM

Isagani could choose to be poetic: it, after all, is second-nature to him, to see the world through rose-colored lenses, and he could easily conjure something up from the rain that fell heavily on the gym’s metal roof and the flood that is raging inside him, threatening to swallow him. He could turn his despair into something beautiful, something that could drive people to tears and have his pain resonate within them as well. Isagani is a poet, and he is powerful with his words—he could let his anguish leach out of his skin and have it poison those nearest to him and make it look like _art_. 

But, he couldn’t. 

All the words and phrases and metaphors he knew dissipated into thin air at the sight of the empty seat beside his uncle, and what is left is the thought of _he didn’t come he didn’t come he didn’t come_ bouncing around in his brain and raw, real agony burning in his lungs as he fought to keep his head above the water. It is debilitating, it is nauseating, it is numbing. It is rapidly spreading through his veins, swallowing whatever semblance of hope blossomed in Isagani’s system. There is no way he could fashion something beautiful out of drowning in a deluge that came bursting out of the metaphorical dam. There are no words to sugarcoat the pain reverberating through his bones, weighing him down as he tries to smile in his blue toga. 

There is nothing poetic, nothing beautiful about the way he let Basilio break his heart.

\--  
May 21st, 2016  
1:35 PM

_“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”_

The inscription written on the base of Jesus’s statue outside the church echoed in Isagani’s head as he knelt in front of the altar; gazing at his morose and sorrowful face on the cross. He isn’t particularly religious, but he distinctly remembered visiting the church often when he was a child; when he had questions his uncle couldn’t answer, or when he was feeling particularly lonely—Tio Florentino had taught him that the man on the cross knew absolutely everything, and that he was a friend Isagani could talk to anytime. Isagani chewed at his lip, wondering if Jesus still considered him a _friend_ —he, after all, had drifted away from him (thanks to Science and radical, rapidly-changing modern world) and came to reconnect with him only when desperate times called for divine measures: like exams, or days before grade releases, or coming out to his uncle. 

(The thought made him feel guiltier than he already was.) 

He came to the church to plead for the strength and courage to tell his uncle the truth—Tio Florentino tended to stay away from political matters and social issues, claiming he’d seen enough of them in his younger years, he wasn’t sure how he was going to react, and that thought sent a jolt of anxiety through his veins—but did God still listen to the prayers of people like him; people scorned and shunned and turned away from in a society as conservative and as _blessed_ as the Filipino’s? 

Isagani closed his eyes and muttered a quick one nonetheless. He crossed himself, and when he leaned back to sit on the pew, it is then he learned that he was not alone. 

Tio Florentino sat beside him with worry in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. Isagani is torn between the warmth that bubbled in his chest (Tio was still family, and he hasn’t seen him in a while) and the sudden, cold grip of fear in his gut. 

He turned to the altar even before Isagani could say something. 

“You know, you only came to the church when something was bothering you.” He said, a slight note of nostalgia in his voice. “I thought that habit of yours faded away, but as it turns out, it hasn’t.”

Isagani let a short chuckle escape his lips at the memory, ignoring the pounding in his ears and the lump in his throat. 

“Tell me, Gani, is there something wrong?” 

He saw it coming—Isagani closed his eyes and took a deep breath; then he jumped off the edge and into the unknown. 

He was going to tell his uncle through the only easiest way he knew how. 

“There is just something that confuses me, Tio: if Christians are called to love one another, to stop the perpetuation of hate and discrimination; then why do most Christians vehemently condemn homosexuality, to the point where they feel the need to commit one form of oppression or another against them? Does that not go against what the religion itself is supposed to be about?”  
For a moment, Tio was silent, and Isagani stared at his shoes. He wondered whether he had seen through him already—a part of him wished he already did, to spare them both the agony of throwing it out in the open. 

(That was the Filipino way, isn’t it—to avoid sensitive issues by means of ambiguity?)

“It seems as though issues are something one cannot avoid these days,” Tio said with a light chuckle. Isagani almost took back what he said, but Tio Florentino spoke even before he could. “Gani, the reason why they do so is because the Bible taught us that it is unnatural, that it goes against God’s design—we have been taught that the two sexes are supposed to be each other’s partner, and not the other way around; because they have one mission: that is to carry out the sacred duty of creating life. Futhermore, stories in the Bible—such as that of Sodom and Gomorrah—directly correlate the sin of Lust to homosexuals. Christians are also called to shun all sin and help those who are deep in it, but sometimes, they do it so aggressively that it causes their brothers and sisters unbearable suffering, yet they still think what they are doing is justified. I do not blame the Bible, but by only painting one side of the picture, it created a generalization most Christians grew up seeing and believing.” Tio Florentino sighed; then he gave Isagani a nod of his head. “You are correct, Gani, to think that it defeats the purpose of our religion. But I solemnly believe that those who cause this kind of oppression are only acting based on what they were made to believe their whole lives—you would act the same way if I raised you strictly based on the principles written in the Bible, wouldn’t you?” 

Isagani bit his lip, lifting his gaze to Jesus on the cross again. “I would, Tio, I guess. But it’s still saddening to see people living their life in a lie because they know exposing what they truly are would lead to a life of fear, prejudice, and pain. It is saddening to see people degraded because of something they cannot change, all because of a—a human, man-made concept that was supposed to protect them and make them feel loved. It is painful to see them silently yearn for acceptance in a world that seems so adamant on denying them that, just because its people deem them an anomaly based on words that came from something so ambiguous. No human has to fight for the freedom to be who they truly are.”

“I know, Isagani, and to see my own brothers and sisters causing other humans a great deal of pain using this religion as an excuse also hurts and infuriates me. I have heard the confessions of many people who have the same thoughts as you do, and I have seen the same people run away from the Church because of what a few people has told them. I have studied the Bible for years, and yet some part of me still thinks that it is not entirely made up of God’s words—it was written by humans, they may have twisted it in ways we don’t know; some parts of it may have been lost in translation. However, I believe that our God is an ever-loving and all-accepting God; he is a father to all, regardless of who they love. I do not think it matters to him whether you love a man or a woman, just as long as you follow his will. I also believe that the sins commonly attributed to homosexuality—such as lust—are sins that heterosexuals are capable of doing, too, so if anyone dares tell you you are sinful and dirty for being a homosexual, you have to know that they are not as pure as they think they are, they are no better than you.”  
A small flicker of hope ignited in Isagani’s chest—Tio Florentino’s responses implied that he accepted them and thought no less of them. It was safe to tell him, to unload the burden Isagani carried for a year. 

His vision began to blur, the words already building in his throat, but Tio broke the silence once again.

“I know what you’re trying to tell me, Gani. I want you to know that I still love and accept you no matter who or what you end up with, and my being a priest does not impair my ability to love you for who you are. I know you were never too religious, but if you were wondering, I believe that God still loves and accepts you, too, no matter what anyone says.”  
A tear escaped his eyes and fell to the red leather of the kneeler, and it is all that it took for him to crumble. Isagani wept before he even realized it; his chest heaved with sobs, his relief manifested in crystalline rivulets that fell down his cheeks. The weight of the prejudice and the hate he has witnessed—in the form of online posts and conversations heard in public restrooms, in the eyes of people when they look at members of the LGBT community, in the way people immediately assumed he was gay when he wrote a piece about them—came off his shoulders immediately. 

“Thank you, Tio.” Isagani said, his voice rising barely above a whisper. 

Tio Florentino nodded as he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Is this about that man you keep telling me about?”  
A beat, a pause, a moment of silence—Isagani remembered the number of times his Tio called to check up on him, and every single time he did, Basilio’s name almost always came into the conversation. It was only a matter of time before he noticed; there was no point in lying. “Yes.”  
“Ah, well.” Isagani may have imagined it, but Tio’s lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “When can I meet him?”  
“When I finally tell him.”  
\--

May 22nd, 2016  
2:45 PM 

Isagani didn’t think there were bigger storms to survive other than coming out and his academic life, but as it turns out, he was wrong—very wrong; since his feelings for Basilio had grown exponentially since the past year. He may have gotten some of the load off his chest during his heart-to-heart talk with Placido that one night, but that only succeeded in brewing a larger, stronger hurricane that was (for a lack of a better term) a _bitch_ to suppress. Every moment spent with Basilio is pouring rain; every laugh a clap of thunder; every smile a bolt of lightning cutting through his breast. 

It lasted for more than 40 days and 40 nights; Isagani struggled to keep his head above the floodwater. Fighting the current, swimming against it is tiring—at that point, Isagani was ready to let it pull him deeper, to let it consume him, to let it fill his lungs, his heart, his _brain_ —

A knock on his dorm room door stuns him from his reverie, sending whatever courage he mustered plummeting to his tiled floor. He picked up whatever he could on the way to the door; opening it _alone_ , facing _him_ seemed to require bravery, too. 

“Hey,” Basilio greeted as soon as the door opened, a small smile curving at his lips. There it is again—the flash of electricity. “I came as soon as I could.” 

Isagani tried his best to return the simper, but judging from the alarm in Basilio’s irises (his eyes were still so wonderfully expressive), it had looked more like a grimace. “Thank you. Come on in, Placido isn’t home.” 

“Yeah, I ran into him on my way here. He said something about getting here and putting you out of your misery?” Isagani could hear Basilio’s faint footsteps as he drew nearer to his bed, his usual designated place whenever he came over. His tone was light enough, but Isagani picked up on the concern he was trying to conceal. “He may have been joking, but does that have anything to do with why you called me?” 

Isagani’s fingers tightened around the book he was putting away; he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Placido was, once again, one step ahead of him and took the matters into his own hands. A part of him wanted to lock his roommate out just to show him _exactly_ how he felt; a part of him was screaming; and the last, tiny fragment remaining was thankful for the opportunity to put his plan into action. 

(He wouldn’t have known how to begin, anyway. Placido probably figured that out before he did.) 

“Actually,” Isagani tried his best to keep his voice steady, the tremble manifesting itself in his hands. “Yes. Um, how much time do you have?” 

Basilio nodded as though he expected his answer. He popped off his shoes and sat on his bed, looking at him innocently with those deep eyes Isagani always found so stunning. “I’m on a break, so I have an hour. Fire away, Gani; I’m all ears.” 

He took his time clearing the other side of his bed before settling down and pulling his knees up to his chest. Isagani had imagined countless scenarios in which he professes his love for his best friend, but none of those scenarios had him looking like he just crawled out of bed. None of those scenarios had Basilio’s gaze burning into the side of his face as he stared at him in concern. None of those scenarios had him trembling, because Basilio was so damn close, his shoulder pressed against his own, and he had no idea what he would do if he shifted to meet his gaze. None of them had him with a damn tempest raging in the depths of his chest, flooding it with a mish-mash of anxiety, fear, and pure admiration. 

His words are stuck in his throat, and Isagani is tempted to swallow it down and send Basilio out. However, it’s too late to back out, and knowing Basilio; he would never let it go until Isagani told him the truth. 

He clears his throat, ignoring his racing pulse and sweaty palms and shaking fingers. 

“I’m—I’m bi, Basilio.” He said. He tilts his head up to look at the ceiling—anywhere, really, to avoid Basilio’s surprised eyes. “I have a preference for both men and women. It’s uh—it’s something I’ve had a lot of difficulty coming to terms with the past year, that’s why I didn’t tell you immediately. Normally you’d be the first person I would tell, but—“ 

“Mhm?” 

“—If I did, then I’d have to tell you that I—“ It is then Isagani made the biggest mistake of his life: he shifted to meet Basilio’s eyes. He expected to see surprise or empathy, but something different is written all over his face—he looked as if the weight of Isagani’s confession hit him right in the gut, rendering him breathless; sending him into a trance that had him staring at Isagani as though he was the only thing he could see. His words died out in his throat, Basilio’s gaze having knocked the wind straight out of his chest. 

_I’m in love with you_ —maybe those unspoken words are what urged Isagani to slowly lean in, as though drawn by Basilio’s gravity, to close the distance between them. Maybe, Isagani couldn’t help but hope, those words are what made what made Basilio move to meet him in the middle. Maybe those five little words, so simple in their own existence yet so powerful when used in the right (and the wrong) moments, are what scrambled Isagani’s head; rendering it filled with only the thoughts of feeling Basilio’s lips on his own, of his taste on his tongue, of the warmth slowly pooling in the pit of his stomach—  
A bolt of lightning sliced through the air and after it followed a roar of thunder. It is then Isagani snaps out of the daze he was in; springing away from Basilio.  
“I—I’m so sorry, Basilio I—I had no idea what came over me I—“  
The room might have been enveloped in a thick layer of silence, but Isagani could not tell: the only sound in his ears is the echo of his own apology; the maelstrom muffled in the flood he let himself drown in, in the flood where he let go. He is sunk deeper and deeper; the water invading his senses, streaming _that’s it I’ve ruined everything I’ve lost him what now_ endlessly into his head. Shame, anger, and guilt coursed through his bloodstream; weighing down his heart; his body. He is numb. He is sinking. He can’t breathe. 

“Wow, Gani.” It may have been the panic in his head, but Isagani couldn’t find it in him to read into the emotions concealed in Basilio’s words. “Since—since when?” 

His words are the only things clear in the haze of his senses. 

“I—I don’t know, to be honest.”

_Ever since you bared your soul to me the night after your graduation. Ever since you laughed at that one joke I made, and I realized you looked better when you were smiling. Ever since your face was the first thing I saw in the morning that one time I got sick with the flu. Ever since I realized your eyes were as dark as the night sky, and that I could write a poem about them. Ever since that one time I shoved you out of my dorm room, and you looked so hurt and angry but you still worried about me and forgave me. Ever since._

“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”  
“What—what now?”  
“I don’t know, Basilio, that is entirely up to you now.”  
“Can I—I don’t know either, Gani. Can I think about it?” 

Isagani is too drained to acknowledge the hope that was supposed to come with the uncertainty in Basilio’s words. 

“Okay. If—if you still want anything to do with me after this, come to my graduation. If I don’t see you, I’ll understand.”  
“Okay. Okay, I—I think I’ll go now.”  
“Okay.” 

 

Placido found him sitting by the window, unmoving, when he arrived hours later, long after the sun had set. 

\--

May 26th, 2016  
5:34 PM

For a moment, the weight that resided on Isagani’s chest the entire ceremony lifts: as soon as he sets foot on the stage, the rain pours ever-so-suddenly, crashing in a million drops onto the metal roofing. It drowns out the thunderous applause that followed his name; as though Mother Nature herself is applauding him; her child, a child of the water. 

A smile breaks over his lips as he looks over into the crowd, as he listens to the applause, to the rain—it took him four years to get there. It took him four years to craft that diploma, and Isagani feels as if it isn’t just the success of his college education that he’s celebrating: it is the culmination of all the things he has learned in the four years he spent in Ateneo; whether be it in the classroom, in the busy Katipunan streets, or in his dorm room. It is his reward for all the pain, the beating, the confusion, the endless toil. It is not an end, it is the beginning; it is his ticket to the real world, the world he swore he is going to change someday. 

The lights are blinding, but Isagani could still find the faces of the people who matter the most to him in the crowd: Placido (who was grinning so widely, Isagani is momentarily dumbfounded-who knew he could smile?), Tio Florentino. The spot beside his uncle was still empty, but he forces himself to swallow down the lump in his throat; focusing instead on the sound of the water falling in torrents, of the whistling wind, keeping himself grounded. He takes his bow, and though his fingers tremble, he smiles still. 

_“Para sa bayan”. This is for all of you._  
\--

May 26th, 2016  
7:04 PM

The rain is still pouring, rendering the gym full of parents, children, and graduates waiting for it to slow. Isagani cranes his neck to find his uncle through a dense sea of flashing cameras, wide grins, and people catching each other in hugs. He finds him standing by the row of seats he sat in, talking to someone he couldn’t see through the throng of people (probably an old colleague), and Isagani hastily makes his way to him, eager for a release of the tension he harbored in his chest for hours, knowing his uncle would know what to do with him. 

He is five paces away when he realizes just exactly who Tio is talking to. 

He stands there: his lips are turned up into a charming smile; his soaked dress shirt is folded up to the elbows; his hair is pushed back, and from the looks of it, damp; he shivers slightly. Isagani’s heart leaps into his throat; the wind is knocked out of his lungs; and disbelief slowly renders some feeling into the gaping, numb emptiness in his chest. 

His uncle is talking to Basilio.

\--

May 26th, 2016  
7:06 PM

The scene unfolding in front of him smacks Isagani straight in the gut, rendering him breathless and at a loss for words. He couldn’t muster the strength to move, all his senses have been scrambled, and the only thing that is going through his mind is _Basilio came he came he came he came!_ He had been expecting weeks upon weeks of trying to patch himself up from the sting of rejection without his best friend to pull him through it, but there he was. 

Standing there. 

Talking to his uncle, blushing at something he said. 

Basilio, in the flesh. 

Isagani couldn’t wrap his mind around it—sure, okay, he came, Isagani is sure he isn’t hallucinating, but _what did it mean? Does he like me too or is he about to friendzone me or_ —

“Gani!” 

His uncle’s voice breaks the string of possibilities unraveling in his brain, successfully catching his attention. With Tio Florentino’s back to him, Basilio’s face colors once more as he catches his lower lip between his teeth; a futile attempt to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. Isagani’s heart plummets straight to his stomach, and his trance breaks once and for all: a giddy smile slowly forms across his face. He counts the steps he takes to reach them— _one, two, three, four_ —it is all he can do to ground himself, to keep his composure; by the time he reaches the pair, his heart is ready to shoot straight out of his chest.

“This young man approached me just a few minutes ago,” Tio Florentino says, patting Basilio’s shoulder. “And introduced himself as Basilio. Is this the man you’ve been telling me about?” 

Basilio lifts an eyebrow, amusement clear in his deep eyes. Isagani rolls his own at him, shifting his attention to his uncle. 

“Yes, uncle, the one and only.” 

At that, his face lights up, and for a moment, Isagani thinks Tio has turned into a completely different person; rendering him concerned enough to forget about the embarrassment threatening to swallow him whole. “He tells me you two have a lot to talk about. In that case, just meet me in the lobby, _anak_.” 

He gives his shoulder one final pat, and walks away even before Isagani could respond. 

“You’ve been talking about me?” Basilio says, taking a step closer to him. 

“Shut up,” Isagani rolls his eyes and attempts to shove him. He then finds himself flushing furiously when Basilio catches his hand and intertwines it with his own. 

He freezes, staring at Basilio’s hand laced with his.

_What?_

“I’ll explain later,” Basilio says, his smile softening. “Let’s get out of here.”

\--

May 26th, 2016  
7:25 PM

Isagani is standing outside the Rizal Library as a thick curtain of rain veiled the city beyond the trees; as Basilio stands in front of him, and he wonders how anyone could possibly look so beautiful underneath the fluorescent light above their head; how someone could take his breath away even though his hair is sticking to his face in wet clumps; his dress shirt soaked through; with raindrops racing down his skin. Basilio was beautiful—even with his bedraggled appearance; his eyes were alight, alive with a certain kind of happiness he has never seen in them; his skin was flushed; he tried to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his lips by chewing at them. At that moment, all of the exhaustion in his bones dissipated into thin air; it is then Isagani embraces the truth: He was in love with Basilio, and rightfully so.

“Before anything else,” Basilio shatters the silence with a breathy laugh, and Isagani has to blink several times to snap himself out of his trance. “I’m sorry for being late. My shift ended later than I expected and I ran into some traffic. I was a block away and I didn’t want to miss the entire thing or come in when you already left, so I, uh—I ran. In the rain.”

Isagani couldn’t help it—a chuckle escapes his lips. There was something comical, something ironic about Basilio running through the rain for him: it was the exact same thing he had stopped him from doing all those years ago, and it the end, Basilio ended up doing it. For him. 

“I know, right? Anyway, I found your uncle because he was the only person sitting on the chairs allotted for your family, so I figured he must have been the famous Tio Florentino you told me about.”

Isagani nods—of course Basilio would figure out a way to find him. He always does. “And you just went up to him and talked to him?” 

“Yes, and he seemed pretty happy about talking to me.” A coy grin materialized on Basilio’s face, along with a glint of mischief in his deep, usually somber eyes. “He told me how you always brought me u—“ 

“Yes, I did, oh my God,” Isagani interrupts Basilio with a groan, to which the latter laughs. “Stop it. What else did you talk about?” 

“Well, for one, I asked for his permission.” 

His heart drops straight to his feet, and Isagani has to take a moment to recollect himself. A small flicker of hope flutters in his chest—people ask for permission from other people’s relatives for one thing, right? _Right_? “Permission?” 

“Yeah.”  
“For what?”  
“I don’t know, dating his nephew?” 

“What,” The flutter grows into a whirlwind, and soon, it is filling Isagani’s chest; scrambling with his senses, rendering him lightheaded. “You did what?”

“I asked him if I could date you, and he said ‘yes, of course, you have no idea how happy you make him’,” The young medical student rolls his eyes as though it were the most obvious thing in the world; then he grins giddily at him, confidence clear in the way he drops his voice, in the way he tugs him even closer. “I’ve got his ‘yes’, all I need is yours.” 

“Wha—you’re in love with me, too?” The words felt foreign on Isagani’s tongue—surely Basilio was joking? As much of a romantic as Isagani was, to hope for such things were foolish: the story that was unfolding before him, involving him, was one that existed only in the beauty of poetry, in the world of prose.

Basilio laughs. “Yes, if it isn’t obvious already.” 

“Since—since when?” 

“I don’t know either, Gani, it just—it just kinda happened.” He makes a vague gesture with his free hand, and Isagani realizes he never let go. “I’m guessing ever since two years ago, but I think—I think I’ve been in love with you longer than that, I just—I just refused to acknowledge it.”

Even then, uncertainty and the slightest hint of indignation reign supreme over the happy, giddy warmth swelling in his chest. “And you didn’t tell me when I told you?”

Basilio sighs, a silent apology clear in his face. “I had a feeling you’d say that. I’m sorry, Gani, but you took me by surprise. I—I held back my own emotions because you didn’t seem interested in me that way, so when you went out and told me that you were, I was… scared? I needed time to regain my composure. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t—I didn’t want to hurt you. I wanted to be sure about what I felt.”

“Wow,” Isagani breathes, a deep sigh escaping his breast. “All this time you felt the same…”

“That’s right.” 

“I can’t believe it. You really love me, too?” 

“Yes, Gani, I do. I love you.” 

“I—wow. Wow, Basilio.” Isagani slaps his free hand to his forehead, then running it through the wet strands of his hair in disbelief. It is too good to be true, indeed: Basilio asked his uncle for his permission (he isn’t sure how to feel about that), he ran through the rain for him, he is in love with him, he told him he loved him, and was now asking him to get together with him once and for all. All in one night. Basilio is a damn force to be reckoned with; he took Isagani completely by surprise and left him in awe. 

(And quite possibly, even deeper in love with him.)  
“’Wow’ is correct. So is that a yes?” 

He takes a deep breath to collect himself, and after a beat, a cheeky grin breaks across his face, too. “I _did_ show you I was in love with you a few days back, didn’t I?” 

“Well.” Basilio laughs. “You did.” 

“I did, and I think it’s pretty clear that that means I love you, too.” Isagani grins, taking Basilio’s free hand in his own and using them to pull him even closer. The latter throws his head back into a laugh, and warmth courses through Isagani’s veins at the sight. “Can I kiss you now?” 

“You move fast.” 

“You’re not saying no.” 

“Just do it, Gani.” 

And with a laugh, Isagani obeys—his hands come free to rest on the back of his neck and on the small of his back, and he kisses him. He kisses him with no hesitations, and this time, Basilio reciprocates without any doubt; he tugs him even closer, as though their proximity could make up for the distance that came between them in the past four days. They kiss until the air in their lungs run out, and when they pull apart, Isagani feels as though his lips, his hands, his body would never fit so well with another person’s; because Basilio was absolutely perfect. 

(He thinks Basilio is perfect even though they weren’t locked by the mouth, anyway.) 

“Why did you ever back away from me four days ago?” Basilio asks with a roll of his eyes and the ghost of a grin on his face. 

“I was scared you’d hate me!” Isagani cries, heat rapidly spreading through his face. 

“With a kiss like that? I don’t think so, could’ve saved us a lot of time.” He shoots him a cheeky smile, and Isagani has to pick his jaw off the floor. “Now come on, Tito’s waiting.” 

Basilio doesn’t give Isagani the chance to respond—Isagani knows he wouldn’t have been able to, anyway—he pulls him back out into the torrent again. 

\--

May 26th, 2016  
7:20 PM

It is stupid, really, and it is something Isagani didn’t know he needed: Basilio’s hand in his as they run under the still-pouring rain, deliberately getting themselves even wetter, as he led him down familiar walkways. The raindrops soak through his dress shirt and his pants and his leather shoes, but Isagani didn’t mind—it is cleansing, it washes away the dirt and the grime and the hurt that accumulated on his skin and wore him down, it is pure, it is rebirth. Summer rains produce fresh blooms. Summer rains water dry Earth, bringing it to life once again.

A summer storm brought Basilio into his life; it is during a summer storm that he thinks he lost him, and now, it is bringing him back to him in a completely different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just... I just finished an entire multi-chapter fic. Incredible.
> 
> Anyway, I just want to say a massive thank you to the people who were there in the beginnings of this... thing: Alex, I know you'll read this someday when we're not too bogged down by acads. And I _will_ know, because you'll be screaming and crying at me via caps lock and chatboxes. Ara, you have no idea how grateful I am you beta-read this. If I could say "thank you" in all the dialects the PH has, I would.
> 
> (Treat na lang, pwede ba? Char.) 
> 
> Ate Sel, thank you for the comments; I will never stop screeching about them. Honestly. 
> 
> To my tumblr/twitter mutuals: trust me, when you cry/screech/scream; I'm crying/screaming/screeching with you. Thank you so much <3 
> 
> 'til the next fic, fam.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! guys can you believe i actually wrote a multi-chapter thing?? can u believe?? anyway, this is already finished so i'll be updating every Saturday! thank you for reading, ya'll can come scream at me/cry with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Iakambini) or [tumblr](http://tanginae.tumblr.com/)!


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